


Misery

by sweptaway



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: (also only kind of), (he doesnt), (kind of), But he's trying, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse, Self-Harm, lots of mentions of a lot of things- this is so far one of the more graphic things i've done, lots of poor thoughts about himself, lots of thinking he deserves this, not too graphic just lots of grabbing and gripping, this definitely isn't a ship fic or anything- he's just lonely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26531389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweptaway/pseuds/sweptaway
Summary: Finnick and his time in 13's hospital
Relationships: Annie Cresta/Finnick Odair
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Misery

By now, Finnick was practically living in the hospital. Ever since his and the rest of the Victors’ arrival in District 13, this was the life he knew. Rigid schedules, tying knots, and sedatives being forced on him when he refused -- absolutely **refused** \-- to sleep. Of course some nights it wasn’t exactly about refusal, and more just that he couldn’t. Sometimes he’d lose track of time and when it finally caught up to him, he couldn’t find it in himself to be tired, or to trust himself to sleep at all. He’d stare off, mostly. He’d watch the television provided in his room, knowing damn well it was a mistake on the hospital’s part to leave it in here.

All he did was stare. Nothing **happened**. Occasionally, there’d be a small update on the Capitol, or the rebellion uprising in the districts, but it never mentioned Annie. Not once had he even heard a hint of where exactly she might be, what exactly they might be doing to her. 

He couldn’t stand it. 

Even if they just flashed her face once, he was sure he’d feel a little more peace. Even if they lied, if they said she died, he’d feel peace. 

Maybe they wouldn’t be lying. Maybe she’d be better off dead. 

For weeks- maybe months?- on end, Finnick had felt so exhausted his bones ached, even just blinking stung. Despite the sedation, sleep was never particularly restful. He was always a restless sleeper, now of which often ended with him disrupting himself into waking up, or hurting himself one way or another. And then there were the nightmares which felt never-ending, and always started a bit too hopeful, ended a bit too realistically. Annie would kiss him, he’d hold her, they’d be okay, and then that’d come to a halt. Either because he woke up, only to be met with a pillow he’d clung to and himself alone, or because she’d spill some heartbreaking detail about her time in the Capitol, end up completely swept away from him in some attack, or drift off like Mags. 

Step **too** far away. Give too much hope in Finnick himself and let herself go. 

It’s his fault that Mags is dead. 

It’s his fault that Annie might be too. 

He doesn’t know what’s better anymore, but he **does** know that if he had only behaved upon winning his first Games, they wouldn’t be so hurt. If he had kept his distance, if he had unattached and destroyed the attachment his heart was set on, they’d be better. He knew, near immediately, after winning then just how much he was loved in Panem. If he had given in, that’d be easier. Let himself become some emptier shell, maybe he wouldn’t be hurting now. That’s a decision of which he knows is selfish, but no one who wins the games how he did could ever be selfless. No one who grew up seeing it exactly how the Capitol did -- a **game** \-- was ever really good. 

He was tarnished from the start. Over time, that stain just got bigger. There was no use trying to get it out, there was no use trying to feel human. All that does is spread it to something else. To **someone** else. All he did was hurt things more. All he does is ruin. 

Finnick kept track of the routine.  
Every night he’d have the bandage on his arm removed, the wounds cleaned, new bandaging put on tighter-- no, he **swears** \-- than before. Every three days he’d be sponged down, cleaned, that was supposed to help, and **sometimes** it did. Twice a day he’d eat, more often than that he tried to drink, with everything he took down feeling too heavy and making his mouth more tired than it should. Every week his nails would be checked and trimmed as a “safety precaution”, so he couldn’t hurt himself worse, but it only felt like the grooming he was all too familiar with. 

But every so often he’d break the routine. Like tonight, when he curled into a tight ball, gripping at his hair to where it hurt. It felt like it tore his head, but it was secure. If it made him stop thinking, if it made him work better, if it made him less pretty. 

He hated how pretty he was. 

_When he was 17, it set in properly how much. The hope he had for the Capitol and their affections shattered. It finally clicked how little they cared about him despite how much they wanted him._

They wanted his body, not him. 

Finnick could hear Annie’s gentle, too loving voice correcting him now; they don’t know him at all, he’s not bad. He’s meant for so much more than sex, they just don’t know him. They want his **body** , not him. 

They want his pretty, disgusting, ruined body. 

_He didn’t remember much. He remembered staring at himself. He remembered tearing at his face. He remembered curling into a ball where he sat in front of his stylist’s vanity. He remembered yanking his hair, scratching and holding his face until he felt skin break. He remembered how desperately he wanted everything gone, he couldn’t be pretty if he destroyed it. He couldn’t be wanted by_ **them** _, only those who’d really count._

_He didn’t want to be pretty._

_He couldn’t stand it anymore._

_He didn’t get enough done. He’d scratched himself up, but it wasn’t damaging enough. His stylist got him to let go-- or maybe it was the full team-- and cleaned, prettied up all over again with makeup he later had to wash off far too carefully._

Finnick almost threw hits, but really it was more like thrashing. He was grabbed again, he couldn’t stand to be sent back to another client, not now. 

But he wasn’t. Because these are nurses who **helped** him. He could shout and cry all he wanted, this was help. And he hadn’t been tearing at himself either, only holding his hair. He knew it looked like a threat, but it wasn’t, he just wanted to feel sane again.  
They sedated him when he wouldn’t let go. Really, he thanked them. He didn’t want to feel more pain, he wanted peace. Really, Finnick found no relief in sleep, but at least he had some hope for it when he felt himself ( forcefully, of course ) drift off. 

That night, in sleep, Annie kissed him. Slowly, carefully, with his hand stroking her cheek. Her skin was so soft, so **real**. With all of her blushing and her freckles and her warmth-- it felt real, and comforting, and safe. 

Not real. He knew it wasn’t real, because if it **was** , he would’ve been crying. 

He woke up alone. 

Real. 

Annie was in trouble. Real. Annie was in trouble because of him. Real. Annie had been in trouble because of him more than he could count. Real. Annie deserved better than him, endlessly better. Real. Real. Real. 

He felt so sick that he sat himself up. That was also real, but it’s not like he was doubting that. His head felt empty, floaty, but not in any good way. It just made him dizzy and disoriented. The clock said it was barely 3 AM, but the way he felt left him wondering if he’d been out for days.  
Blankly, he stared ahead of himself. His eyes were tired, it felt like more work than it was worth to look around the room. It wasn’t too interesting when he finally worked up the energy to glance around; it all stayed the same, constantly. It was quiet except for the hum and buzz of electricity, the lighting felt sickly, and he felt insane. 

Not real. 

If he was insane he wouldn’t be so useless. He’d be able to do something other than stare ahead at the blank television screen and pretend there’s hope for a tip on Annie. 

There wasn’t even static to listen to, just silence. Nothing happened, nothing came on, but he stared. If he looked away longer than to blink, he’d miss something. Nothing happened **yet** , and something in him told him that Annie deserved at least this, at least to know someone’s keeping an eye out for her, and cares. He trusts District 13, but he doesn’t know them, he doesn’t know how genuine the care is. Are they **really** looking out for her, or any of the captives for that matter. Is it just another ploy for someone else’s gain? Better yet, when they have her, are they going to use Annie too? Use her to make him compliant? 

Finnick shook his head to himself, just now looking away from the screen. 

The last he heard from Annie was her screaming. In the arena, he wasn’t even with her, it was fake, and that hurt more, the thought of which **also** only hurt more. He shouldn’t wish to see her hurting in front of him, and no, that’s not what he wants. But he wants to be able to help her, and if she was hurting he could do that. He could hold her, or talk her down, or give her space, or whatever she needs that could help and pull her out of it.  
He remembered how it felt when everything was screaming, and how he wondered if that was how Annie always felt when things got too loud, when she covered her ears or fought against him. How scared she must be, to experience that so often. How strong she is to pull through it. Finnick gave in so easily, tried to crush his head. Her strength was incomparable to anything he knew, especially to himself. 

If he closed his eyes now, he swears he could hear it again. Ringing, loud, desperate. 

So he refused to close his eyes, wishing now was a moment he could speak. It felt far too crushing to even try it, but if he could he’d repeat to himself what Annie would tell him to calm down. That she loves him, no matter what. That he’s stronger than he gives himself credit for, or that he’s good and kind, even now. That she can pull through as long as she knows he’s there. But he’s not there, there’s no use in trying. Usually it would be okay, even if he didn’t believe it fully, to know she thought those things was calming. 

This was not. 

Instead, this was remembering to a vivid T how it felt when Annie was drowning, only more graphic than he saw in the first place. Before, she was mostly hidden, most of the cameras went out from the sheer force of the water drowning them out. But now, he swore he could **see** her swimming. Swimming, and failing. Failing, and falling. 

She was drowning because he failed her again, he didn’t teach her well enough, she was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it. 

He couldn’t even cry, not really. His eyes teared up, but nothing fell. Finnick was simply frozen, watching as the air left her lungs, and then she screamed. She screamed because her district partner had been beheaded, she screamed while she ran, she screamed because nothing made sense and everything hurt and screamed back. 

That was the one thing he couldn’t stand in his arena-- how loud everything was. The cannons, the fighting, even the ocean was too loud. It was overwhelming and uncontrollable. **This** was like that, ten times over. 

She was screaming because of him. 

If he behaved, Annie wouldn’t be in the arena at all. She wouldn’t be struggling, fighting for her life to where she’s **not** that. 

Not real. 

Annie wasn’t dying then. Annie’s Games were long over. She **won** them, she didn’t drown. She didn’t drown because **he** helped her. Real. The screaming wasn’t real either, it was quiet. He knew it was quiet, that was all he seemed to be capable of complaining about. So when the realization hit that none of this was real either, that he wasn’t watching her scream or drown or fight, he **did** cry, that was unstoppable. 

Finnick curled in on himself again without grabbing his hair this time. Instead, it was arms wrapped around himself in some poor, weak hug. He rocked himself as he nearly sobbed, tried to knock some sense of sanity and stability in. He looked like a child, but at least he’d been silent and could bring himself down from it without sedation. He could be capable of something on his own. 

She’d be home, one day. He’d be okay, one day.


End file.
